


The Waltz Of The Wicked

by TailgatesHarem



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: 20s au, F/F, F/M, Humanformers, Jazz Age AU, M/M, Multi, Prohibition AU, Roaring 20s AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 06:53:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5656810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TailgatesHarem/pseuds/TailgatesHarem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1919 and America just passed the highly controversial 18th Amendment, enacting the age of Prohibition. Newspapers scream in all-caps, "U.S. VOTED DRY!!" Where some panic and hoard what liquor they can, there are always the few and the proud who have worked marvelously in times of stress and struggle. A mixed bag of soldiers, scientists, prohibitionists, speakeasy conosieurs, and the undecided become tangled together in a strange twist of fate at the beginning of this new, dawning decade. All of this wrapped up in the cast of characters Transformers fans know and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, kids! Let me make this list as clear and concise as I can. I L O V E the 1920s and the entirety of American early 1900 history. Not to draw this out, but I see a grand and beautiful stage for the cast of Transformers to act upon in this world. I'll update names of human-formers in the Notes and if I goof, I'll fix it when I have the time. Thank you for sticking by me (if you've read this far and are still reading now) and I hope you enjoy my self-indulgent AU. 
> 
> NAMES:   
> Cyrus Cloven (Cyclonus)  
> Temperance Gate (Tailgate)   
> Wayne Shock (Shockwave)   
> Charles Sounder (Soundwave)   
> Percy Collins (Perceptor)   
> Brandon Storm (Brainstorm)   
> Natalie Oceans (Nautica)

If there's no greater truth, it's that if you tell someone to not do something they will obviously do that thing. Keep your head down, they say. They look towards the sky. Don't act like that, they say and act they will. This was the very undoing of the world's perceived moral compass. However, the young, old, rich, poor, strong, and weak, this dawn was of a new day. This was the time for debauchery and money, the best combination. 

Even so, resistance was felt. Take Cyrus Cloven, for example. A stern, hard-lined woman, she never strayed the antiquated Victorian moral ideals. She was a devout woman of faith and a strict, bookish type. Her only deviance, it seemed, was her keen eyes, strong fists, and sharp tongue. However, in her company she kept a softer child who could mellow out her sharp edges. Temperance Gate was her charge, a sweet, aloof orphan who was named for a cause on its way out the door. She was coming upon her fifteenth birthday and the new century neared closer and closer. It didn't help that she was a charismatic girl with striking blue eyes and fair hair. Cyrus pushed that out of her mind as stared at the newspaper. The headlines were getting more daring and racy, a sure sign of the times, she thought. But this one couldn't be ignored. "U.S. VOTED DRY!!" 

"What's prohibition?" Temperance asked, leaning over Cyrus' shoulder. 

"It's the idea that alcohol corrupts great men and tears society apart," Cyrus replied. Flapping the paper straight, Cyrus watched the young waif from the corner of her half-moon glasses as Temperance walked around to the other side of the table. "What do you think of that?" 

Temperance flopped into a chair and then snapped straight up once she saw Cyrus' disapproving scowl. She sighed and pursed her lips. Temperance didn't know what to think. She didn't drink and wouldn't if she could. The stuff tasted awful. She had it once when she was out on the streets, but she didn't ever see anyone "corrupted" by the stuff. She looked out the window, paper confetti thrown in the streets as women touted the morning paper. 

"I think it's gonna cause more problems than it fixes." 

The strict woman's brow rose in curiosity, folding the paper and laying it flat beside her cup of tea. "Why's that," she mused, taking a sip of the straight black tea. 

"Well... I mean, people like alcohol, don't they?" 

"They do, indeed." 

"People are gonna find a way to get their hands on it." 

And Temperance was not wrong. You see, halfway across the city a very quiet man with a strong jaw and cold eyes was counting his liquor inventory in the deep bowels of his cellar. He'd heard the news come straight off the press last night and he was not about to let some uppity church-goers sink his business. After all, he knew no other trade than listening and pouring a drink. 

"One hundred and seventy-six... one hundred and seventy-seven... mm..." He paused, pondering a vintage bottle of fine wine from Italy. Its label was dusty, but he could tell it was a good one. "One hundred and seventy-six," he smirked, popping the cork. 

"Wayne Shock," a monotone voice came from behind him. The man turned, surprised to hear his name. So many customers called him Shock these days.   
Standing at the top of the stone stairs was a curious man by the name of Charles Sounder. His eyes were always hidden by dark glasses pushed to the top of his slender nose and his voice never came higher than talking volume. If he ever shouted it would surely by a greater surprise than the beginning of Prohibition itself. "I have a job for you," the man finally said. 

"Shouldn't that be my line? After all, you're just a liaison between me and the big man himself. We both know that," Wayne smirked, pouring two small glasses of wine. He offered up one to Charles, but the man stayed at the top of the stairs with his hands behind his back. "Oh, come on. It's a time for celebration, is it not? We're about to be rich." 

"If everyone does their job and keeps their mouth shut, yes." 

Shock knew that naturally loose-lipped men with money and alcohol in their hands could prove as troubling as Charles implied. It was true, if people didn't keep their traps shut and their eyes open the grand scheme they'd planned out for so long would flop. 

"That's what our favorite bouncers are for, or are they a loss as well?" 

"No, they will do their jobs. They're paid far too well not to." 

Wayne smirked and toasted alone, nodding up to Charles who nodded in return. "To the future," Wayne declared. 

"To the future," Charles replied.

 

"This isn't going to work," Percy Collins sighed, watching his colleague and fool of a friend ready his aviator goggles over his face. 

"If it doesn't you can kick my ass and drag me into the hospital. It'll make you look heroic," Brandon Storm grinned from behind his medical mask. The tall, lanky scientist had always had a weak constitution, but he only challenged that by doing dangerous experiments of escalating hazard. "If it works... well, then you can kiss my ass." 

Percy hopped off the fence and stood tall, hands in his pockets, monocled eye watching the field before him. Brandon had set up a makeshift rocket--yes, like the ones in comic books--out of soup cans, combustible gas stove fuels, a few firecrackers as the fuse, and a tiny metal casting of Isaac Newton. Why Newton? Gravity, of course. The man to discover it would be blown to bits by someone defying it.   
Brandon pulled the bar matchbook out of his back pocket and crouched down to the ground, grabbing the fuse. Percy sighed, coming closer to watch that maniac. Just as he lit the fuse someone came hollering across the field from the other side of the fence. It was a young woman waving a paper high over her head, waving her arms. Percy and Brandon turned and squinted. 

"They passed it!" She yelled. "Th-they passed Prohibition!" 

"What?!" Brandon snapped, standing so abruptly that he forgot there was a lit rocket behind him. He waved for the girl to stop, but she had already hopped the fence and was jogging closer. Brandon stepped back, his foot kicking the rocket over. Percy shouted for them both to get back, the fuse fizzling against the fuel can. 

"Bra-Brandon, you won't believe it!" The young woman gasped, shoulders rising and falling as she caught her breath. 

"Move it!" Percy snapped, shoving Natalie and Brandon back onto the grass away from the screaming rocket. The fuel can whined, making a horrible popping sound. Then, just as if fell still, the rocket began sparking wildly and spinning in circles. "Back, back!" 

The three had crawled back to the fence and were watching in fear as the rocket spun so fast it blurred, the sour smell of burning gas filling the air. Finally, fuel can screaming and rocket nearly falling to pieces, the thing shot forward, skipping along the ground and corkscrewing right into the side of a bright red barn. Brandon's eyes popped as the barn's once clean face now had a sizeable dent and scorch marks where the rocket had made its impact. He stood, brushing himself off. 

"I think we should go," he declared. 

"What?" Natalie gasped, hearing the sound of bleating goats coming from inside the barn. "Shouldn't you go and get it?" 

"Get it?" Brandon laughed. "No, no, my dear. That would make me look guilty." 

And so the three hopped the fence and walked briskly back towards the road where Natalie's car awaited them. She hopped in the car on the driver's side, tugged on her driving gloves, and threw the paper into Percy's lap as he took his spot on the passenger's side. Brandon was outside, gripping the edge of the car for support as his arm ripped the crank, the engine roaring to life. Natalie waved for him to climb into the back, but Percy noticed none of it. All he saw was the headline. 

U.S. VOTED DRY

Brandon hopped in and shouted over the roar of the engine, "DRIVE!" 

"What?" Natalie looked back, gasping as she saw a farmer running fast at their car, Brandon's rocket in hand. "Great Gatsby, Brandon!" She snapped, slamming her feet on the pedals, the car shooting forward in a gust of dust ripping up behind them. 

The car jumped and rocked along the gravel road, Brandon barely bracing himself against the seat without being thrown out of the thing. Percy's monocle fell off his face, but that didn't matter. The world had just changed and all he could seem to think of about was the outcomes of it all. After all, he was best with theories and by his account, this concept placed into action wasn't destined to end well. He turned in his seat and eld up the paper for Brandon to see. 

The young man took the paper in his hands and read it slowly while bouncing around in the back seat. "What about medical rubbing alcohol? Does that count?" Brandon pried. 

"Be serious, man!" Percy hissed. "And no idiot would be fool enough to drink that." 

"What's the verdict, boys?" Natalie asked, eyes stiffly on the road. 

Percy and Brandon look at each other and frowned. "It seems the world has been turned on its head and logic is down the drain like the liquor," Brandon sighed, opening to the Business section. 

 

"Everything is on schedule, sir," Charles Sounder declared, voice firm and calm as he faced the closest thing he could ever call a friend. The man was broad-shouldered and was eloquent despite his brutal simplicity with his right hook. He was dressed finely and cleanly, suit tailored and hair combed back slick. The last time Sounder had seen his boss it was watching from the ground as he knocked out his opponents in the boxing ring. 

"Shock is moving the inventory as planned?" Came a deep, cold voice. 

"On schedule. Though, some of the mules are concerned that they might get caught with this Prohibition movement tightening the grip around criminal activity," Charles admitted, pushing his round, dark glasses farther up his nose. 

"They don't need to worry," the boss smirked. 

"And what should I tell them to make that true?" 

"Because now we have police escorts." 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Velocity - Lottie Jones  
> Blurr - John-Robert McCreary-McBleary  
> Ratchet - Theodore Ratchet  
> Andrew Bueller - Ambulon  
> S. Windleson - Swindle  
> Note: Yes, I did make Blurr's name as silly and overcomplicated as possible. Sue me. Plus, it's catchy.

Maccadam's Old Soda Pop Shop was full that breezy November, people abuzz about the news of the new Amendment. Natalie could barely get the attention of the boy at the bar to order their drinks. The booths were packed, the tables occupied, and those sitting at the bar pressed against each other at the elbows. Natalia shoved two men to the side, searing their eyes with her own bitter stare as she claimed a spot for her and her friends. Brandon, strawberry blonde hair flipped every which way thanks to the car ride, hopped onto the barstool, Percy taking the favor of standing. It really was packed, but this was the biggest development in politics since the U.S. entering the first World War. 

"What can I get you smiling three," a fast-talking bartender asked, his smile wide and lips quick. "We've got Scotch Drops, Madelines, Grasshoppers, Coca Cola Cherry Chompers, Mint Minnies, Shirley Temples, and the morning paper," he said, flapping up a copy of the most read paper that side of the printing press. Natalie blinked fast, processing all the information at once. 

"Well, sir, you can start by slowing down," she sighed. "I'll have a Shirley Temple and, uh..." 

"A Scotch Drop and a soda water for standing room only here," Brandon butted in, jabbing a thumb in Percy's direction. 

"Excellent," he nodded, writing it down faster than he spoke. "I'll have it up for you sooner than you can say my name three times fast!" 

"And what  _is_ your name?" Percy asked, cleaning his monocle. 

"John-Robert McCreary-McBleary," he smirked, shaking Natalie and Brandon's hands. 

But before Brandon could offer a, "Pleasure to make your acquaintance," he was off. 

Natalie sighed and rubbed her head. She was glad that they'd left England and become their own country. At least she wouldn't have to run into people too happy and too snappy for their own good in New York. 

The drinks were sliding across the counter in no time, Percy catching his just before it slid off and into the floor. He hissed under his breath and offered a nervous smile to the talkative soda boy. The all sipped on their indulgent drinks with a sigh of relief. 

Once the band of strange almost-brothers were refreshed, they huddled together and spoke under the buzz of the room. They were sneaky little scientists, the three of them, but they were smart not to let their plans fly above radar. Too many suspicious eyes around those days. Natalie enjoyed the intimacy of closeness with the two degree-holding men. She was never let into graduate school, so she stands in her lab coat like a magician's cape. It meant a helluva lot to her, but not much to anyone else. Nevertheless, the boys never treated her any different. She was far too brilliant to out sheerly on the basis of her liking of rouges and heels. 

"So," Brandon began, voice hushed. He tugged his medical mask down so he could be heard more clearly. His sun-kissed skin contrasted with his strawberry blonde hair and freckles, but it was always hidden behind that dark mask, so who was the wiser? Oh, wait, Percy and Natalie. The moment Brandon's face was revealed both's minds went a little fuzzy. Despite his madcap ideas and radical theories, Brandon was a logical and understanding person, not to mention attractive. Some would shun a weak constitution, but this didn't get in the way of people staring into his beautiful eyes and noticing the way his smile flashed a gap in his front teeth. Even Percy, a strongly scientific person, couldn't help but get distracted. "Did you get all that?" Brandon smirked, eyes narrow. "Jaws up, lads. Wouldn't want to catch flies now, would we?" He snickered and pulled the mask back up. 

Percy cleared his throat and Natalie adjusted her hat with one hand, smile wide and face rosy with blush. "And they wonder why I never take this thing off. I can't  _help_ but entrance the feeble-minded," Storm chuckled. 

"Feeble-minded?!" Natalie and Percy barked in unison, eyes aflame. 

"Now who's listening?" 

The two leaned in to scrutinize Brandon and his haughty ways, but across the room a very different kind of person was watching them with keen eyes. Theodore Ratchet, an ex-war surgeon and recently returned veteran, was parked at a booth with a young man who looked a little off-put by the mood. He didn't speak much English and what he could say wasn't the nicest of words. He rubbed his left thigh, shoulders tense. "Stop that," Theodore whispered firmly, stopping the boy's foot tapping with his own shoe. "It won't heal if you focus on how much you miss the leg." 

"Halt die Klappe, alten Mann," he growled, scowling at the man who had taken that leg from him. In one hour Theodore Ratchet had taken a leg, a life, and yet saved them both and all this twerp had to say was, "Shut up, old man." 

"They teach you to respect your elders in Deutschland?" 

Andrew Bueller, a German turn-coat and medic, sat across from his American counterpart, still rubbing his thigh. 

"Warum sind wir hier?" 

"In Englisch, Andrew," Ratchet sighed, tapping his cigarette ash into the tray on the table. 

"Wh-why... we here?" 

"To meet friends," Theodore smiled. 

"Freundin?" 

Theodore nodded, "Ja, unser freundin." 

The room stretched out before Ratchet, his back to the farthest wall. He could see a cluster of young boys laughing over a funny picture they'd drawn, three suspicious looking youths huddled around each other, a line of sweethearts sharing soda pops, and the ever-increasing volume over the news of this new fad that seemed to be called Prohibition. It was the worst idea since joining The Great War in Theo's opinion, but what did he know? He was paid to shoot and suture, not question the government. 

The revolving door rotated slowly until a stunning beauty of a young woman came through, her sparkling green eyes finding Ratchet's. Her face widened in a beaming smile, her cheeks rosy with rouge and eyes alight like a pair of stars. Her naturally wavy hair was bobbed at her jawline, a sharp, sweet angle that accented her warm expression. She'd always looked this way even before Lottie Jones had discovered her natural flair for womanly charm and the delight of saving lives. 

"Nurse Lottie Jones," Ratchet smiled, standing to greet her. 

"Please, it's  _doctor,_ now," she winked. 

"No, it's been too long," Theodore groaned, allowing Lottie to slide into the booth. 

The young woman gently tugged her low-brimmed hat off and placed it beside her on the table. She noticed the nervous boy with dirty golden hair and charming grey eyes. "This is Andrew Bueller. Saved his ass in Austria right before the war's end." 

"Du sprichst Deutsch, Andrew?" Lottie asked, head tilted forward. 

"Wer es die Frau? Es sie wichtig?" Andrew asked Theodore. Was she important? Ratchet chuckled to himself. If not for Lottie Jones, women would have been stuck in the role of nurse and house-maker. She was a pioneer of loud-mouthed elegance and short hair. Of course she was important. 

"Ich bin ein doktor. Ich heisse Lottie Jones," she smiled, offering her introductions. 

"Lottie's father is German, Deutscher. See? Freundin," Ratchet smiled, sipping his water. 

Lottie blushed and chortled to herself. "What?" 

"I do hope you mean 'freundin' as in friends and not as in girlfriend," she giggled. 

"That's a thing?" Theo asked, eyes wide. 

"That's a thing." 

The mood between everyone softened instantly, Andrew even placing both hands above the table with a softer face than his usual bitter scowl. Lottie talked a lot in German and English about how she'd recently graduated from a women's medical college with honors. She had endless job opportunities in women's health, but she wanted to do general practice. Unfortunately, men didn't take kindly to a woman telling them to drop their drawers. Prohibition was at the back of her mind. She was dreaming of the world ahead and all its glories, not some bitter concept from the past. 

But the room's chatter couldn't be ignored. Andrew listened to the buzz and caught this word and that, hearing one word over and over that he couldn't place. 

"Was ist 'Prohibition'?" 

At the sound of Andrew's question her face drained of all happiness. She groaned and leaned back in her chair. She didn't give a damn if it was un-ladylike. She didn't care if her own mother slapped her on the wrist. She was bored stiff of Prohibition. It was just one more old person trying to suck the fun out of the lives of the young. She could barely believe it passed. Just nearly she'd avoided its subject, but she had to oblige the curious refugee. 

"It means there's no more alcohol. Nein bier und wein." 

Andrew's eyes popped. "Nein bier? Nein wein?! Ich hasse Prohibition! Ich bin verlasse Amerika!" He declared, the smile returning to Lottie's face. She laughed so loud that a few of the older patrons stared. 

"What? What did he say?" Theodore asked, confused and nervous. He didn't like stares. 

"Andrew said he hates this place and he's leaving America!" Lottie laughed, rubbing her eyes. "Andrew, you're an endless source of amusement." 

Nevertheless, no matter how much of a joke Prohibition seemed, there were many who were far from laughing. 

Outside on the street newsies touted the bold, screaming headline, holding out their few remaining copies of the paper. They couldn't sell the paper fast enough. But there was something, too, that was selling like hot cakes and it was as simple as an idea. 

 

Two beady eyes scanned the papers on his desk with the utmost scrutiny. The room was dark and the dim candle light didn't help much. He thought of turning on the light, but he didn't want to see that skinny man scowling down at him, eyes always hidden and lips tight against his severe expression. His only job was to either agree or refuse, but, let's be honest, there was no refusing a man like Charles Sounder. 

"Windleson, you have only one job. Yes or no," Sounder stated clearly, expression frozen in tired impatience. 

"It's, uh... well, it's a tall order," Windleson smiled, eyes shifting between the paper and the contract. "You know, I don't mind if it's illeagal. You know, who really gives a damn? It's just that, uh... it's a lot. And I mean, a lot, alot." Sounder remained quiet. "You sure this isn't a typo?" 

"Possitive," enunciated Charles. "If there is an issue with the order, be assured, there are others more eager for the work." 

Windleson laughed and shook his hand in the air, grabbing his pen. "Don't get too jumpy just yet, old pal. I said it was a lot, not that I refused to take it. I do worry about the ease of access, though. You know, with the whole Prohibition deal those tight-ribbed women struck up with the Conservatives." 

"Our Employer informs me that that is not an issue." 

"Oh, really? Have a chat with Jesus Christ, did he?" Windleson chuckled nervously, hand hesitating over the 'sign here' line on the contract. It really was a massive order for recently considered illegal stuff. 

"The attorney general, actually," Charles said as if it were no big deal. Yeah, that's cool. He just called up New York's attorney general and informed him that he would be moving around hundreds of thousands of bottles of now illegal hooch all over the city. No biggie. 

Hands clamy and face warm with sweat, Windleson handed the contract over to Charles Sounder. The man took a hold of the contract, reviewed it briefly, and then finally tucked ito into his briefcase. Everyone was on schedule, just how Charles liked it. He offered a rare, sickly smile and tipped his hat back onto his head. "Good day, Mr. Sounder," Windleson offered, beginning to stand. 

"It will be if you do your job." 

The moment that Charles Sounder was out of his office, Windleson deflated in a great sigh of relief. That man was colder than a winter's night and more bitter than cough syrup. "It will be if I do my job," Windleson grumbled. "What a jack ass." 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my goodness, thank you for reading (assuming you've gotten this far). I hope this is off to a fair start. I'm super pumped for this AU. I hope you stick with this because gosh golly do I want to make this happen. 
> 
> Please comment/review/bookmark!


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